


I Dream of a Dominatrix

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s02e19 Bad Moon Rising, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-25
Updated: 2006-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-30 17:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15101672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Josh's POV afterBad Moon Rising.





	I Dream of a Dominatrix

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

Title: Our Two Consciences: I Dream of a Dominatrix  
Author: Michelle H.  
Feedback: Yes please!  
Spoilers: Up to and Including Bad Moon Rising.  
Category: General Josh/Donna  
Summary: Josh's POV after Bad Moon Rising.  
Notes: Thanks to Laurel. This corresponds with Laurel's Reality Called.

  


Okay, so first it was Mrs. Peel. I started having dreams about Donna  
wearing leather pants like Mrs. Peel from the Avengers. It was after  
the Stackhouse Filibuster incident. You know, when she was telling me  
about that cat Goddess. Bast. She's an avenger. 

So in my perverse and muddled mind I made the obvious connection between  
an Egyptian cat Goddess and The Avengers and my assistant, which  
resulted in many nights spent pondering Donna in a pair of leather  
pants. Tight black leather pants. And maybe a British accent. 

Although if she ever accused me of being "several shrimp short of a  
barb-y," or "the weakest link," I'd wake up screaming bloody murder. 

That 'Weakest Link' lady is so frightening. 

So anyway. Then it was the Catholic School girl uniform remark, which I  
had been terribly embarrassed about at the time, but it turns out was  
well worth it. "I wouldn't stop for red lights," she'd said. 

And the implications of that remark�-well, they're staggering. 

But that night led to many other long and agonizing nights spent  
imagining Donna in a short plaid skirt. With those thigh high  
stockings. And maybe a garter belt. 

Oh yeah. Definitely the garter belt. 

And then this time, it was the dominatrix thing. 

"AA's definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again  
expecting different results. I'm not cheap, nor am I xenophobic; I just  
think it's time for some tough love," she'd said. 

"Well, not right here in front of everybody, Donna," I'd told her,  
smirking, "but if you want to run home and get your equipment," I'd  
started. 

"Go away from me," she said. 

Thank god she'd interrupted. If she hadn't, I might have finished with  
something like "I'll meet you back here in an hour." 

And she would have quit and filed a lawsuit and I'd never see her again. 

Except for every time I closed my eyes at night for the rest of my life. 

So anyway, I've been having these dreams about Donnatella in a  
dominatrix outfit, complete with a riding crop and a scourging tool and  
chains and duct tape. 

I honestly don't know where the duct tape thing comes in; I always wake  
up before we get to that part. But what I like best is the way her butt  
looks in that tight black leather. 

It's a wonder I've never had a thing for biker chicks. 

Anyway, I think I need to call Stanley, or something, because according  
to the good folks over at Alcoholics Anonymous, I'm certifiable. 

Because every time I open my mouth, I somehow end up with the pristine,  
Protestant Donnatella Moss in some ridiculously sexy outfit. I don't  
know what I'm going to come up with next. Possibly a French maid, or a  
genie in a bottle, or a go-go dancer. 

Complete with the boots. And maybe a feather boa. 

And it's obviously not doing me any good at all. Donna has yet to show  
up to work in a sexy outfit, and I'm barely getting any sleep at all  
anymore. 

Can someone call the men in the little white coats? 

So every night I go home and dream the same dream. Donna walks into my  
office wearing a ridiculously sexy outfit. She brings me coffee and my  
schedule. She tells me she loves me, she always has, and she just can't  
take it anymore. Then the lights suddenly dim and she gets up on top of  
my desk and does a little dance, where she wiggles and shimmies and  
starts removing various superfluous items of clothing. Then she kneels  
down on the desk and looks at me with these huge, dark, smoldering eyes,  
grabs me by the tie, and...  
I know it sounds ridiculous, but it's a dream. It's my subconscious at  
work. I can't control these things. 

Although if I could, would they be any different? 

Oh, god. 

And I wake up, sweating and frustrated, every morning at exactly 4:52  
a.m. 

I wake up and she's not there with me. 

But she's supposed to be. 

I'm obviously insane. Every night I go to bed alone and every morning I  
wake up fully expecting Donnatella Moss to be beside me. 

I mean, she does have a key to my place, and she is an excellent  
assistant, but I think that may be a little above and beyond the call. 

But then I imagine the sheet falling away, exposing that long, bare,  
alabaster back... 

God, this is hell. 

I wake up every morning at 4:52 a.m. and take a very long, very cold  
shower. Then I head to Starbucks and pick up a very large coffee,  
because waking up every morning at 4:52 a.m. means I don't get a great  
deal of sleep. 

Then I go into work and sit down at my desk and Donna walks into my  
office. 

And she doesn't bring me coffee, she isn't wearing a ridiculous costume,  
and she doesn't jump up on my desk, declare her undying love for me, and  
do a sexy little dance. 

My dreams are far more exciting than my reality. I really have to do  
something about that, although if I did, I'd probably either get fired  
or have my incredible assistant quit and press charges. 

Or both. 

My dreams are far less complicated than my reality, because in my dreams  
I know for sure that Donna loves me back. In my dreams we never get  
caught. In my dreams there is no Leo and no special prosecutors and no  
allegations of misconduct. 

My dreams rock. 

Maybe Donna dreams about me, too. 

Do you suppose I dance in her dreams, on top of her desk? Maybe I beat  
gomers over the heads with folding chairs, like a professional  
wrestler. Maybe I wear Velcro tear-away chaps, like the Chippendale  
dancers. Or a tear away tuxedo, which would leave me in a bow tie and  
my boxer shorts. The ones with the presidential seal on them. Donna  
loves those. They make her laugh. 

She did my laundry while I was recovering, okay? 

Maybe I wear plaid flannel pajamas, and lay with her on soft flannel  
sheets. We listen to the April showers on the windowpane and I smooth  
her hair and whisper in her perfect, alabaster ear about the Lend-Lease  
act and Mexico and garden hoses and fires. 

I think I like that one better than my dreams. Leave it to Donna to  
have the normal dreams. 

It seems perfect. It seems real. 

And I think Donna would look totally hot in a red union suit. You know,  
the one piece jammies where the backside unsnaps? 

Oh, whatever. 

But, like I've said before, we can't act on all this stuff. We do the  
best we can, though, with sweet conversations about eighth grade social  
studies textbooks and red lights and beer. 

The sweet stuff is pretty rare, though; and difficult for us because  
we're new at it. Recently we've turned a corner, or cleared an enormous  
relationship hurdle; the sweet stuff is okay, now, but still scary. So  
we try it out occasionally, but mostly stick to the stuff we know. We  
banter. We argue. We flirt, although not openly, not all the time. 

I don't know what's caused us to turn the corner, or clear the hurdle.  
I'm not even sure I know what the hurdle was. 

Maybe it's just the moon. 

Whatever it is, I guess I'm glad. 

* Yawn * 

Goodnight, Donnatella, wherever you are. I'll see you in my dreams.

  


End file.
